


428 Harrowgate Court

by nishizono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are certain rules by which the universe must abide. They are observable and quantifiable, and once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes knew every one of them that mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	428 Harrowgate Court

+=+=+

 

There are certain rules by which the universe must abide. They are observable and quantifiable, and once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes knew every one of them that mattered.

 

+=+=+

 

_428 HARROWGATE CT. 7:30PM. COME ALONE.  
JW_

 

+=+=+

 

Sherlock steps out of a cab and onto the pavement in front of a mostly deserted block of townhouses. 428 Harrowgate Court is a Victorian monstrosity of crumbling brick held together by two centuries of soot, and the buildings on either side of it are occupied by nothing but packs of stray cats.

There's an electric lantern burning in a second floor window.

The interior of the house is in even worse shape than the exterior. Sherlock edges around a gaping hole in the second floor hallway, and wrinkles his nose at the smell of rotting plaster. The door at the end of the hall looks like it's been forced open, and Sherlock approaches it with caution.

What he finds inside brings him to a sudden halt. For the first time in years, he's genuinely surprised.

Moriarty's head is bowed, and his entire body is slumped with exhaustion; the only thing holding him up is the rope binding him to the chair. The front of his shirt is splattered with blood-- _drip pattern, minor spray on the shoulder, bloody nose from a blow to his left cheek_ \-- and his hair is dripping with sweat. But he's still conscious, somehow, and he lifts his head just enough to glare up at Sherlock from beneath his lashes. There's a rag stuffed in his mouth and he grins around it.

Sherlock stares. Christmas and Armageddon have come all at once.

“Happy birthday,” John steps out from the shadows to stand at his side. “D'you like it?”

“Oh John,” Sherlock whispers. “You shouldn't have.”

 

+=+=+

 

They have tea first.

The bedroom is the only part of the house that's livable; it's been outfitted with a fourposter bed and a small table with two chairs. A full tea service has been laid out on the table, complete with sugar tongs and a coffee pot. There's even an area rug.

The wallpaper is peeling and Moriarty is bleeding in the corner.

“What I want to know,” Sherlock says as he sits down across from John, “is why I never noticed you were chasing him on your own.”

“The same reason you haven't wondered why I've stopped bringing my dates home, I suppose. You think everyone around you is simple, and so you therefore assume we're doing simple things.” John's hands are steady while he pours their tea, and he pushes one of the cups in Sherlock's direction. “For what it's worth, you're usually right.”

Sherlock toys with the handle of his teacup for a moment, thinking, and then says, “He's been living here.”

“Of course he has,” John replies. “I would never choose that color for the bed linens.”

Sherlock lets out a delighted chuckle.

“I'm honestly surprised you never realised,” John says after awhile. “I thought it would be easier for you to keep track of what I've been doing with my days.”

“Every day? Really?” Sherlock asks, surprised that John has managed to catch him off guard for the second time in one evening.

John smiles. “Every day.”

Sherlock clinks his cup against John's and then starts to laugh, _really_ laugh for the first time in years. Everything's been flipped upside down like a mad, beautiful scene plucked straight from his dreams.

“What is it?” John asks, head tipped to one side with the innocent curiosity Sherlock spends hours coveting.

Sherlock can't stop grinning. “I've never been Alice before.”

 

+=+=+

 

Moriarty is quiet even after they take away his makeshift gag. He smiles, though, a sharp little grin full of morbid amusement, and his gaze follows Sherlock around the room. He's taunting Sherlock and they both know it, and it makes Sherlock want to _do things_ to him.

“I don't suppose you were able to collect any evidence during the chase?” Sherlock asks John.

John is by his side, as always. “Nothing that would convince a jury, no. I had my hands full just trying to collect _him_.”

“What a shame,” Sherlock drawls. “I suppose we'll just have to deal with him on our own. You haven't developed an aversion to taking the law into your own hands, have you John?”

“Not at all,” John replies.

Moriarty laughs.

 

+=+=+

 

A selection of tools has been arranged on the nightstand, and Sherlock runs his fingers over them, wondering how it is that John knows him so well. There are scalpels and iodine, biopsy needles and a length of barbed wire. There's even a pair of black leather gloves and a brand new riding crop. John has hand-picked each item. The gesture is so intimate it makes Sherlock blush.

 

+=+=+

 

Moriarty doesn't speak until Sherlock cuts off the top button of his shirt, but as soon as he starts, he doesn't seem inclined to stop. His voice is rough, like he's been yelling, but there's an amused edge to it when he asks, “Don't you think it's strange that your pet doctor is the one encouraging you to do this?”

Sherlock ignores him and cuts off the second button.

“ _Do no harm_ ,” Moriarty singsongs, then lets out a hoarse laugh and says, “I can't believe someone so brilliant is overlooking something so obvious. Daddy's very disappointed in you, sweetheart.”

Sherlock pauses and stares into Moriarty's eyes for a moment, then lets his gaze drift to John, who's watching them with a confused expression. When he catches Sherlock watching him, though, he beams, and Sherlock smiles back.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Moriarty giggles. “You really don't get it, do you?”

 

+=+=+

 

When Moriarty doesn't react to the scalpels, Sherlock switches to the crop.

“I knew you'd be kinky, lover, but I didn't take you for the whips and chains type,” Moriarty taunts. His shirt is off, and he's bleeding from three parallel cuts just beneath his collarbone. The rope has left lines across his ribcage, and he flinches almost imperceptibly when Sherlock rubs the marks with the tab of the riding crop.

“You let him catch you, didn't you,” Sherlock murmurs.

“I let _you_ catch me, you mean,” Moriarty replies with a grin. “Get it right, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glances up at John, who's standing behind Moriarty's chair, content to let Sherlock work alone for now. They catch and hold each other's gaze for a moment before Sherlock looks away.

The crop leaves vicious red marks on Moriarty's skin. Moriarty hardly even blinks.

 

+=+=+

 

“I'd prefer that you don't kill him,” John says.

Sherlock looks up from the barbed wire he's been slowly winding around Moriarty's throat, and tips his head to one side.

“For the same reason I'm glad he didn't kill me,” John explains. “I want to be your first.”

Sherlock can't define love from personal experience, but he thinks that what he feels for John in that moment is the closest he's ever come.

 

+=+=+

 

Sherlock is standing on the front steps when Lestrade arrives.

“It's four in the morning,” Lestrade points out as he joins Sherlock on the front porch. “What's so important that it couldn't wait until a civilised hour?”

“Moriarty is inside.”

Lestrade is silent.

“I asked you to come alone because you're the only one who will believe me when I tell you that I'm not responsible for the state he's in.” Sherlock lets the lie roll off his tongue, then catches Lestrade's gaze and holds it while he whispers, “You do believe me, don't you?”

Lestrade's expression is neutral, but he's not a good enough actor to hide the little crease between his brows. After a long silence, he replies, “Of course I do. I'll just go inside and check on him, then. I'd like it if you came with me and showed me where he is.”

They climb the stairs together, past the crumbling plaster and around the hole in the floor, and Sherlock's heart is racing the whole way. The sound of Lestrade's footsteps makes his skin crawl, and he can't figure out why that is until they reach the doorway of the bedroom and Sherlock comes to such an abrupt halt that Lestrade almost collides with him.

The room is empty.

“He was here,” Sherlock murmurs, drifting into the room and over to the chair where Moriarty had been tied. The ropes are still knotted but they're hanging slack around the back of the chair. Sherlock lifts the rope, weighs it in his hand, and then gives the chair a vicious kick and snarls, “He was _right here_.”

“Sherlock, you're exhausted.”

Sherlock feels sick. When Lestrade touches his elbow, he jerks away and shakes his head. “Stop it. Do _not_ patronise me. Moriarty was here.”

“I believe you,” Lestrade says, but he doesn't and they both know it.

 

+=+=+

 

John's bedroom is empty and dark, and Sherlock stands in the doorway, staring at the neatly made bed. There is a layer of dust on the bookshelf but none on the nightstand, and once upon a time, Sherlock would have understood what that meant.

Sherlock closes the door to John's room and turns to make his way down the stairs, humming softly to himself. He's just reached the bottom step when his phone buzzes in his pocket and he smiles.

 

+=+=+

 

 _19345 REDDING LN. 6:00AM. BRING MORE IODINE._  
JW

 

+=+=+

 

Sherlock doesn't have the answers, not anymore; he doesn't need to, now that he has John.

 

+=+=+


End file.
